Eleven Fifty-Eight

The stair goes down farther than the building does. The phone in your pocket loses a bar, and another, and is a lit rectangle. The air smells of printer ink and juniper.

At the bottom there is no wall. Where it should be hangs a mesh of white threads, finer than hair, and it breathes: rain on dry ground, ozone, spent coffee. You put a hand out. It reaches back, one thread across your palm. Along its foot the Mochis stand in a row with their flaps open and empty.

On a nail by the stair, a tortilla wrapper, in pencil: If you hear the roots humming, don't answer. Unless it's Thursday.

The floor is tiled in red and blue, one mark, repeating. Over the stair a clock with a card for the day: THURS. 11:58.

The mesh begins to hum. A low steady note. You have heard it before.